that lurks silently but dances gently as
words meant more
as fragrance and odor does adore.
Comes next the glasses unshattered
And unbroken
lying wait upon the touch of the master
holding a pitcher.
Then on the prarie the fiery mouths
of craters crafted by hundreds hand perfected.
Drunk and burning, what comes after
but a taste of a certain cinder.
But perhaps the master does move so
does the plate almost always too full
of himself and others
from here to there
how I wonder what the chef
is cooking.
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